The Year I Took Up Smoking

Meet the Anti-BMW: My 1973 Yamaha RD350

By Geoff Drake

Originally published in BMW Owners News.

With the arrival of yet another vintage motorcycle, the familiar process begins. Boxes arrive daily, including things like carburetor floats, seat covers, and footpeg rubbers. Money flies out the door almost as quickly. Wire wheels and buffing tools spin excitedly in the garage, with old blues turned up just loud enough to overcome the racket. Hands are rarely clean, and bloodied knuckles are common. Outside, on the picnic table, a fuel tank dries in the sun. Toxic fumes permeate the property. My long-suffering wife wags her finger in my general direction. I run for cover. The house has devolved into a happy and familiar state of chaos. 

Welcome to the world of my newly acquired 1973 Yamaha RD350 two-stroke. The little ring-a-ding is everything my stately BMWs are not: smokey, loud, and uncivilized. Compared to my 1978 R100/7, the RD is like a little kid that rolls around in the mud and refuses to bathe, while the BMW, though roughly the same vintage, is a self-effacing adult dressed for an outing at the yacht club. It’s quiet, clean, comes to life with a minimum of fuss or smoke, and ticks over at a nearly silent 800 rpm. The RD fires up in a rattling, popping cloud of blue smoke before settling down to an irregular 1300 rpm that says, “Look at me! I’m a delinquent! Hate me if you like, but I don’t care!” My wife no longer needs to be concerned for my whereabouts: it’s plain for the eye to see, from miles away. In the realm of environmental toxins, the little RD is its own Superfund site. Thus, the two halves of my personality are revealed, in metal and chrome. In short, the RD is just what I needed at this point in my life. 

I want to do right…just not right now

Why would someone in his mid-sixties need an incontinent little smoker like the RD? I had a series of two-stroke dirt bikes in my early teens and fondly remember their simplicity and ease of maintenance. Of course, this perspective was skewed by the fact that I knew as much about engines as I did about girls when I was 13, which is to say, nothing. But both held an intoxicating allure. So off I went, working on engines, and trying to get a date, from a perspective of complete ignorance.

To paraphrase a song by Gillian Welch: “I want to do right…just not right now.” I’m a Medicare recipient doing his best imitation of a juvenile delinquent. And for this, I can thank the little RD, restorer of youth, polluter of the atmosphere, and general middle finger to the universe. Bad Geoff!

First ride

After weeks of work, the day finally arrived: first ride! The bike starts immediately and, after a brief warmup, I get  “on the pipe” at about 5000 rpm, and the little smoker shoots forward like god’s own slingshot. The sensation is so invigorating that I briefly lose my wits and decide to go on a longer ride. Oh foolish man! Tempting fate in this fashion, the bike of course begins to sputter 10 minutes later, then stops altogether.

Just as I’m about to call my wife and summon The Trailer of Shame, the RD struggles back to life and we limp home, a sad little spectacle of smoke and noise that passers-by find  fascinating and perhaps a little alarming. It’s possible the authorities were called, but by then I’m safely ensconced in the garage.

So here I am, immersed in the internals, doing what I figured I’d need to do in the first place: cylinder and piston work. Since acquiring the bike, I’ve had recurring nightmares of pistons speeding up and down in the complete absence of lubrication. When I was a teenager, I imploded a two-stroke outboard engine in the middle of Long Island Sound, of course carrying no paddle or safety gear. Disassembly later revealed a molten blob that was formerly a piston. The image has never left me. Fortunately, the cylinder on the RD is off and sitting on the workbench in about 20 minutes.  I needn’t have worried, as the pistons, cylinders, and combustion chambers are unscarred, and bathed in green two-stroke oil. 

Shop time

There’s a common refrain when it comes to old bikes, and it goes like this: “If you’re doing (fill in the blank), you might as well (fill in the blank).” For instance, if you’re pulling the cylinders, you might as well split the cases and replace the crank seals. And since you’ve got the cases laid out on the bench, you might as well get them vapor blasted. And since the cases will look so nice after that, you might as well paint the frame. Following this thought pattern to its logical conclusion, if you’re adjusting clutch free play, you might as well do a nut-and-bolt rebuild of the entire motorcycle.

In honor of the RD, I purchase a new fire extinguisher for my shop. Since getting the bike, I’ve felt like the guy who fills up his gas tank while leaning against the pump smoking a cigarette. Two-strokes seem to live precariously close to spontaneous combustion at all times. 

Sometimes the rebuild takes on an archaeological quality. The handlebar switch gear is mostly inoperative, and disassembly reveals an entire colony of dead spiders, who’ve constructed cute little, multi-room arachnid houses that reminded me of Hobbiton in Lord of the Rings. I clean the contacts, touch them up with dielectric grease, and…the headlight actually comes on, casting a flickering, yellow beacon of hope through the dark clouds of a hopeless restoration. These are the kinds of small victories that bring joy to my twisted little heart.

I replace the brake lines, seat cover, seat foam, tires, tubes, rim strips, horn, fuel valve, cables, and various hoses. Money spills out the door like a waterfall. This may be payback for the optimistic statement I made to Meredith upon acquiring the old crock: “It’s actually in pretty good shape! I don’t think it needs much!” Silly man! Get your wallet out, because your hubris is about to be punished!

Much other work remains. Almost all the instrument bulbs are burned out. The right shock seal is shockingly incontinent, so the fork legs will be coming apart. A set of fresh pistons and rings is on the way.

And so, I end up where I thought I’d be in the first place: with all the engine internals spread across the bench, and a sad, near-naked frame on the lift. But soon, I will be annoying my neighbors with newfound intensity. At least during the day. You know how it is with seniors: there’s often a lot of commotion when the sun shines, but we’re usually in bed by nine, dreaming of the next hopeless project.